Fathers And Sons

Some things, they say,one should not write about. I triedto help my father comprehendthe toilet, how one needsto undo one’s belt, to slideone’s trousers down and sit,but he stubbornly stoodand would not bend his knees.I tried againto bend him toward the seat,

and then I laughedat the absurdity. Fathers and sons.How he had wiped my bottomhalf a century ago, and howI would repay the favorif he would only sit.

Don’t you—he gripped me, trembling, searching for my eyes.Don’t you—but the wordwas lost to him. Somewherea man of dignity would not be laughed at.He could not seeit was the crazy dancethat made me laugh,trying to make him sitwhen he wanted to stand.

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As the years passed, Tom grew more entrenched in his homelessness. He was absorbed in lofty fantasies and private missions, aware of the basest necessities and the most transcendent abstractions, and almost nothing in between.